


Burn So Bright

by silenceia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-10-29 08:23:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10850151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silenceia/pseuds/silenceia
Summary: Peaceful retirement is a long way off... Giotto doesn’t know how he ended up reincarnated as Harry Potter, but he will make the best of it. Even if that means going vigilante again.





	1. Chapter 1

It begins with warmth and light. It comes with emotions, impressions, noises. Harry sees Mama's hair and thinks of blistering hot fire, and his chest feels warm and happy. Mama's eyes are green, and he sees sparks and has to giggle. Papa has a loud laugh, and the rumbling when Harry is held against his chest makes him think of earth and red-brown fire, he snuggles closer and basks in the feeling. When Mama takes him out into the gardens to sit in the sun together, he feels there should be more noise. There is a little stream and pond in the garden, and Harry doesn't question why it soothes him, or why he hears flute music in his head. Above in the sky, the clouds soar and he feels safe.

He doesn't question anything. These things simply _are_ , and they make him happy, and when he's happy, Mama and Papa are happy. All is well. Sometimes he wakes up, scared and with tears on his face, but Mama and Papa are always quick to soothe the bad things away.

It's a simple life and Harry never worries for anything.

Then comes the monster. Mama takes him into his arms and runs, and Harry with chilling clarity knows that this time it won't be all right. This time the fear is real. Papa stays behind, and even though he can't see it happen, he feels it in his bones when Papa is gone, and knows he isn't coming back. He starts to cry, and Mama presses him closer to her chest, whispering sweet assurances of her love for him to him, but tears drip from her eyes as her fingers desperately trace the lines of his face.

"Mama loves you, darling," she whispers, smiling despite the fear clouding her eyes. "We must be brave now."

"Mama," Harry whines.

"Shh, love," she coos. "Everything is going to be all right, I promise. Because Mama loves you. Don't ever forget that Mama loves you."

Harry isn't good at talking yet, the words he has in his head are all wrong, and his mouth can't quite form the right noises. But deep inside, he knows that this is the last chance he will ever have to tell his Mama that, "Love too, Mama."

A dry sob escapes her, her fingers joining together in a prayer. "Please, give me strength, I can't do this, I want to see my little boy grow up..."

"Mama stwong," Harry lisps, and presses a finger to her cheek. There is warmth in his hand, and he wills it to go to Mama. "Mama bwave."

She sobs harder. "My brave little man." One last time, she holds him close, her lips pressing against his forehead. "I love you so, _so_ much."

And she sets him down in his crib, wipes her tears away, and stands before him. When the monster comes, she doesn't falter, doesn't give in, doesn't cry. She falls in a blaze of red, and something inside of Harry cries out, and for a moment he doesn't see red hair, and empty green eyes turned to him; he sees golden hair and blue eyes closing, nearly as beautiful in death as she was in life; and his grief knows no end.

But he doesn't cry. Mama said they must be brave now. Mama is gone now, but Harry is still here. He will not cower before his enemies, no matter how frightening they are.

The warmth inside him rises, and he sees amber reflected in malicious red eyes.

_"Avada Kedavra!_ " the monster hisses, and vile green light shoots at him. It hits him, but Harry isn't afraid. It hurts him, but he does not cry out. Green sparks are all around him, and it is as if Mama is holding him in her embrace again. Harry is safe.

But the green light knocks something loose in his head, and suddenly he remembers...

_His name is Giotto_.

Then everything goes up in fire, beautiful, orange-golden, cleansing Flames. The monster shrieks as its body perishes and its spirit flees.

Perhaps Giotto-Harry would have been consumed by his own fire, but a part of the monster's spirit splinters off and worms itself into his head, and suddenly all fire is doused and all warmth is gone. Blackness claims him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

By the time Giotto-Harry is four, he remembers. Everything. Even if he doesn't comprehend all of it, even if he doesn't know how to _handle_ all of it.

His heart is so, _so_ full. Warmth, for he had been _blessed_ with such happiness. Such wonderful family members. He remembers the Storm, steadfast, always by his side, never faltering, never relenting, always there to rely on. He remembers the rain, the soothing melodies of his flute, the sense of peace he always brought with him. The Sun, bright and bold and loud, the one who never doubts, who is so strong, and yet so gentle with his hands that heal. The Lightning, the little brother, playful, fearful at times but loyal to the bone, brave in the face of fear. And the Cloud, he who is just and reliable, he whom he could trust to give him the hard truths, who was strong enough to stop Giotto should he ever stray from the right path.

Finally the Mist, so full of love that it broke him when _she_ died. There is pain in his heart when he thinks of him, guilt, betrayal.

And Elena, the brightest star, the sister of Giotto's heart. Smart as she was bold, kind as she was strong, beloved by all. (But the brightest stars fade the fastest, don't they?)

Cozart, the man he called brother, his best friend. The Earth, grounding to Giotto's Sky, their dreams, their hearts, one and the same.

And Setsuna, the girl he married. Far too young for him with her eighteen years to his thirty-three, and far too good. He met her after he retired to Japan, when all was peaceful and he had no idea what to do with himself. Not the most beautiful girl in the world, not the smartest either, but her smile was the most wondrous thing in the world, her laughter like chiming bells. She had the ability to _listen_ , not with her ears but with her heart, and she loved just as fiercely as he did. She gave him Yoshimune, his beloved son, who had her face, her eyes, her smile, but Giotto's, then Ieyasu's, Flame and Will.

He feels such love for them all. His _family_. His child-heart is too small to hold it all, and when he thinks of them, he feels he can take on the world.

Yet he also feels the greatest sadness, for they are at his side no more. He's alone, and it's cold when he thinks about this fact.

Still, he has them in his heart, in his Flame, and while he cries for them for a time, he eventually stops and moves on. For their memory, he must go on bravely and strongly. The Sky mustn't break.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

He has a family here, too. But they are only blood-ties. No bond that _matters_.

Petty people with mean hearts. They call him names, they keep him in a small and dark space shared with spiders and dust. They make him work to exhaustion, him whom they think is a child. They tell him his parents were useless and unstable, a burden on society, who didn't love him and pushed him on the decent, god-fearing and hard-working people of Privet Drive No.4 when they inevitably got themselves killed in their recklessness.

Giotto, for that is what he has decided his name is now, smiles in the wake of their words. They are only lies, it is them he is ashamed to share blood with. His parents were heroes, they love him fiercely, and he mourns their deaths every day.

And to call them burdens on society? It makes him want to laugh. Giotto once was _the_ bane of society, he who fought against the status quo, against injustice and bigotry, who accepted any and all into his family without care of their status. The all-accepting Sky, that is who he was then and still is.

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, for he refuses to call them anything else, are merely two tiny characters in a grand world full of wonders. They cannot understand the love he carries with him, the magnitude of his heart, the strength of his resolve, and they are far too small-minded to ever see that the only ones they truly hurt with their bigotry and prejudice are themselves.

People who only see themselves will never look to the Sky.

Were he anyone else from the past, Giotto would have raged and protested. G, he would have utterly _destroyed_ the Dursleys, attacked not just them but their finances, their reputation, everything they value. Asari would have smiled, and proceeded to terrify them until they would barely have been able to stand making noise around him. Lampo, he would have thrown the mother of all tantrums, treated the whole neighbourhood to his shrieks of injustice and his crocodile's tears, and he would have _succeeded_. Daemon, the less said about him, the better. And Alaude... that doesn't even bear thinking about.

But Giotto is Giotto, and he is the Sky. He has other weapons at his disposal. This is not a battle to be fought publicly.

He works in the gardens often, visible to anyone who passes. He makes sure to be polite to everyone, gives them the kindest of smiles. He helps the elderly ladies to carry their groceries, he offers to walk dogs. Mr. Miller needs his car washed? Giotto will do it. Mrs. Cotton's back hurts, but her flowerbeds need to be weeded? Giotto loves gardening. Any chore that needs doing, he will offer to do, and he politely refuses to take money for it.

It's not even that he's manipulating them. He _genuinely_ enjoys helping people, loves hearing about their stories, getting to know them. He has a smile and a kind word for everyone. The younger children begin to flock to him because he defuses any and all bullying with words and charisma.

A few months after he first ventured out to explore the neighbourhood, and he cannot go far without anyone calling out a greeting to him, offering him tea, a piece of candy, or a chat about their child's latest antics. Mr. and Mrs. Dursley attempt to talk bad about him but it does not go over well. Either they can barely get a word in due to neighbours gushing just how _proud_ they must be of how sweet and polite their nephew is, or they get disgusted looks when they do get to speak of their opinion.

Of course, they attempt to keep him inside in reaction. But the neighbours come to see Giotto instead. Mrs. Dursley has to do some quick talking while her husband drags him out of the cupboard under the stairs which is in clear view of the house's entry. The Dursley claim sweet Harry was helping to clean it. The neighbours don't really buy it, considering Mr. Dursley had to _unlock_ it in order to get him out.

Little Whinging is a very boring little town. The inhabitants crave stimulation of the mind, and gossip is what they use. They are all the more nosy for it.

Giotto gets his own bedroom that very evening, at the age of six he is finally allowed to sleep in a bed. This is only the first victory.

Another is Dudley Dursley, Giotto's cousin. For all that Vernon and Petunia Dursley love their son, they are bad parents. They never tell him no, they set him no rules, no limits. They give him everything he asks for. Yet Mr. Dursley is often gone for work, and Mrs. Dursley sees him with rose-coloured glasses and talks to him as if he has no brain and hasn’t aged since he was two.

Dudley is not at all smart, but a part of him has interpreted the lack of rules and strictness as a lack of caring, and in reaction he demands attention by acting out. But it has the opposite effect, instead of setting boundaries, his parents get even more lenient and simpering, and they don't see the anger brewing and growing in Dudley.

It is Giotto who makes his move. It's not easy, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley have conditioned their son to reject and despise everything about his cousin. But Giotto refuses to relent. He is persistent, and while he won't claim the adult Dursleys as family unless they drastically change their ways and truly repent, Dudley is different. He's a _child_ , he doesn't know any better.

Giotto doesn't give up on him. No matter the awful things Dudley shouts at him, no matter the many times he goes complaining to his parents. And shouted rejections of Giotto's rebukes become petulant 'why?'s and drawn out arguments and excuses why Dudley should be allowed to do as he wishes, and the other boy doesn't even notice that by beginning to argue, he's shown that he does listen to Giotto's words.

But what really wins Giotto his cousin's loyalty is this: He teaches him to read. Dudley is nine years old, has been going to school for a number of years, but he is incapable of reading simple texts, and he hides it by shouting and yelling, by writing his letters down so crooked no one could possibly decipher them and thus notice that his scribbles make barely sense at all.

But Giotto notices. And instead of ridiculing Dudley or calling him stupid like the boy expects, he sits down with him and a children's book, and with endless patience teaches him to focus, to breathe through the anxiety he feels when the letters begin to swim on the pages, teaches him to spell out the words to himself, to slow down and take the time to decipher word by word, and if that is going too fast, syllable by syllable, letter by letter. It's not easy and Dudley is a reluctant student to put it mildly, but in the end? He's able to read texts by himself, though it does take him a long time to do so.

Dudley will never seek Giotto's friendship or guidance, will never be seen in public with him, but he comes to crave Giotto's approval. It is Giotto who teaches him to be kind, to not be a bully. It is Giotto who encourages him to exercise, to eat healthy. It is he who helps him do his homework, he who explains difficult words, he who teaches him how to add, subtract, multiply and divide numbers.

And thus, Mr. and Mrs. Dursley lose the one way they have to physically attack Giotto, they themselves balk at physically abusing him. Oh, there were attempts at swatting him in the heat of a moment, or tries to grab him harshly. But Giotto avoided those easily, leaning out of the way casually. And when that had made Mr. Dursley even angrier, made him try harder to hurt him, Giotto had done his best to imitate his Rain's lethal smile, the one that looks angelic and kind, not an ounce of killing intent used, but sends shivers down the recipient's spine regardless. Mr. Dursley backed down immediately.

It's not a kind life. Giotto has to work for every bit of his basic human rights. He still has to do his chores and those of his neighbours. Being kind takes barely any effort, but it does add up when he has to put on a sweet front for the entire neighbourhood anytime, every day. He manages, though.

By the time the letter comes, Little Whinging is no longer a callous and suspicious neighbourhood. The people are happier, they laugh more, chat more with each other. Children play in the streets and gardens, and rarely do people spy on each other anymore. The bigotry has been toned down to a minimum. And Harry Potter is the benevolent ruler of Little Whinging, and nobody even realises it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Giotto cannot use Flames.

It's that _thing_ in his head, the one that wormed its way in after he was hit with the green light. It acts like a barrier, like a Flame seal; and try as he might, Giotto hasn't been able to work past it. He'd need to use Flames to destroy it, but the very thing he wants to be rid of prevents him from getting rid of it in the first place.

It's a strange and uncomfortable feeling. The first few years were miserable, he felt too cold all the time and off-kilter. His limbs wouldn't move the way he wanted them to, and it was only amplified by the fact that his body is too young and small, so terribly _lacking_ compared to Giotto's powerful and tall one.

It's like a blanket over his mind, a damper on everything Giotto is. He's still himself, but _less_. His movements are slightly clumsy instead of graceful, his mind is slower, and his attention is quick to wander.

And try as he might, he's incapable of going into Dying Will mode. He hates this.

He has theories on what might help, but life-threatening situations are the last thing anyone would find in Little Whinging of all places, closely followed by battles. There aren't even any tall buildings he could jump off of, and no guarantee it'll work in any case. Also, he can just feel G turning in his grave at the mere idea of Giotto placing his life in danger _intentionally_.

If he had a goal, something to place all his Resolve on, someone to protect with everything he has, perhaps then Giotto would be able to Activate his Flames. But again, his location works against him. Little Whinging is completely and utterly civilian. Nothing ever happens, every day of the week goes according to an unwritten script, and deviations are noted with displeasure. The only enemy to be fought is boredom, the only Resolve Giotto has is to live in such a way that he will be able to tell his family of it with pride.

He is not without hope though. He remembers the magic his parents wielded. It's like nothing he has ever come before, and where his Flames are woefully uncooperative, the magic is _not_. He feels it humming under his skin, in his blood, and while his current Resolve isn't strong enough to physically manifest his Flames, it suffices to make his magic obey him.

He can't do big things, though he feels himself getting stronger with age and practice. But even the small feats fill him with a deep sense of accomplishment. His Mama had once taken him to the garden and made flowers open and close for him, and the first time he manages to replicate the act he nearly cries with joy.

Mayhap his Flames are lost to him (for the moment), he has this at least.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The letter comes shortly before his eleventh birthday. Giotto had gotten the post and was rather surprised to find one letter addressed to himself.

_Mr. H. Potter_  
The Smallest Bedroom  
4 Privet Drive  
Little Whinging  
Surrey

It's not the first time he has gotten a letter. He gets birthday invitations all the time, and the people he is closer to ( _never as close as family, nothing like back then, they are not_ enough _)_ occasionally send him postcards when they are on vacation.

But this letter looks _odd_.

It looks like a letter from back _then_. The thick yellowed parchment, the way it was handwritten with emerald green ink of a quality he has yet to see in any store. The purple wax seal bearing a coat of arms: A lion, eagle, snake, and badger surrounding the letter _H_. The way it _smells_. Giotto inhales deeply, runs a finger over it in wonder.

Perhaps he will finally find answers to his situation in this letter? For who would send him a letter like this, if not one aware of his past?

"Hurry up, boy!" Mr. Dursley hollers. "What are you doing, checking for letter bombs?"

Giotto sighs. His caretakers' (so called only in the widest sense of the word, he absolutely will not call them guardians) treatment of him may have improved somewhat, but their attitudes yet remain to get better.

He troops inside and sits at the breakfast table - a privilege he had fought long and hard for - after handing Mr. Dursley a postcard from his sister and a brown envelope most likely containing a bill. Absently buttering his toast, he inspects his own letter. There is no postmark on it, no return stamp. It cannot have been sent via the Royal Mail.

"What's that?" Dudley demands more than asks, Harry may have helped his attitude but his cousin is still a spoiled child with a sense of entitlement.

"A letter," he answers patiently. He makes to open it, but a twinge of his Intuition makes him lean out of the way of Petunia Dursley's snatching hand. He frowns at the woman who was his mother's sister once but had lost the right to this title a long time ago.

"Give that to me!" she snaps at him, having failed to grab the letter.

"It's addressed to me," he answers calmly. "Perhaps I will give it to you after I've read what it contains, if I feel that its contents are in fact of any interest to you."

"Boy, give your aunt that letter!"

Giotto's frown deepens. There is fear, no, _terror_ in Mrs. Dursley's eyes as her eyes are fixed on the letter in his hands, the coat of arms on the wax seal. Trepidation stains her husband's voice, and his face has taken on an ashy grey hue.

The moment's distraction costs him. Dudley jerks the letter out of his fingers, and his father bellows an expletive and rips it out of the boy's fingers. "OUT!" he shouts. "Out of this room!"

"Dad!" Dudley shouts.

"Out, I said!"

"Give me back the letter," Giotto replies calmly, not moving an inch.

"You've done enough, you little freak!" Dursley bellows. His wife softly whimpers, eyes still fixed on the letter. "To your cupboard!"

"No," he says resolutely. The letter is far out of his reach, he can't reach it with his small body. Acquiring it by physical means is a last resort.

"You want this letter?" Dursley leans closer, spit sprinkling Giotto's face. Abruptly he turns, ripping the parchment up as he goes. Giotto lunges after him, but it's too late: Mr. Dursley has thrown the shreds into the fireplace. "Go and get it!"

Giotto hasn't felt anger in a long time. Displeasure, disappointment, yes, but never the red-hot anger that comes when he sees a grave injustice being done.

The fire in the fireplace _flares_. The power under his skin _heats_.

Vernon Dursley squeaks in terror as the fire spits the scorched parchment into Giotto's hands. He gives the obese _pig_ an unforgiving glare. "I will not forgive you for this, Vernon of the Dursley family," Giotto bites out, and turns sharply on his heel lest he do something he will regret later.

"Well good luck putting that back together, you freakish bastard!" Dursley hollers after him angrily.

Giotto ignores him and makes for his room.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

███████████HOOL  
_of_ █████CRAFT _and_ WIZ█████

 

Headmaster: AL███████████ORE  
_(Ord_ ███████████ _, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, S_ ████ _me Mugwump,_ ████████ _ional Confed. of Wizards)_

 

███r Mr. Potter,

████re pleased to inform you that you ████████████epted ████ogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please fi███████losed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

█████egins on Septemb███. We await yo████████████████r than July 31.

Yours sincere███

Minerva McG███████  
_Deputy Headmistr_ ███

 

Giotto glares at the letter in frustration. It had taken him the better part of the day to put it back together. It is barely legible, and whole sections of it had been completely burnt out, but not to the point that he was unable to tell what it was about. This was lucky because what he assumed was an enclosed list of materials was entirely illegible.

The letter had absolutely nothing to do with his past and his reincarnation. Instead it was an invitation to a school of magic. It was odd, he'd never asked himself where his parents had learned to use it, but it made sense.

Perhaps under different circumstances he would have been excited about it, but as it is he can't help but be disappointed. He'd been hoping for answers.

And it certainly doesn't help that the important parts of the letter had been destroyed. He can find neither the name of the school nor decipher the names of headmaster and headmistress, and he has no inkling as to how to contact this school. _We await_ , it says in the last sentence, but what they awaited he couldn't tell, and he doubts he would find out until July 31.

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley know _something_ , that Giotto is certain of, but he is even more certain that they wouldn't part with the knowledge unless he used violence. But he refuses to. They are civilians.

Where did that leave him? What did it leave him with?

Unable to come up with a satisfactory plan of action (G's absence like a missing limb), he decides to sleep on it.

The sense of relief he feels when the next morning _another_ letter arrives is quite intense. Mr. Dursley gets his hands on it before he can, but it does nothing to deter the bubbling excitement Giotto begins to feel. He still has his intuition after all, and right now it tells him that whoever is sending those letters is not one to give up.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Giotto prides himself on being kind always.

That doesn't mean he doesn't get a certain measure of amusement out of observing the adult Dursleys panic and squawk like chickens over something so simple as _letters_. Mr. Dursley has taken to sleeping in the floor right behind the entrance door, he has nailed the letter slot shut (and failed terribly at it, for a man who sells drills he is quite bad at using them). In response, the steadily exponentially growing amount of letters were forced under the door, slotted through the sides, and even through the bathroom window.

It made Mr. Dursley terribly jumpy, and he took to sealing every tiny crack a letter could possibly come through, all while flinching at the tiniest noises. (And Giotto _might_ have been throwing pebbles against objects just to watch the man jump at the sound. Vive la résistance. Lampo would be proud.)

It gets even better. The sender is getting _creative_. Giotto rather thinks a Mist is behind all of it. The letters are inside of _eggs_. It's Daemon-level shenanigans, he thinks wistfully.

On Sunday the letters shoot out of the fireplace like bullets, quickly filling up the floor. Mr. Dursley cracked then, mumbling conspiracy theories while tearing at his own moustache. Pity that, the moustache had been the only impressive thing about the man.

Ten minutes later they were all sitting in the car, driving to who knows where. Maybe they are finally going to abandon him, Giotto muses idly. Ah, but Mr. Dursley appears not to be thinking rationally enough to come up with this course of action, and instead books them all into a hotel after a rather clumsy attempt at misdirecting driving and shaking off potential tails.

This, too, proved to be useless. The letters found Giotto even still. At this point, he actually had to put in an effort to act as if he simply could not get his hands on a letter. Perhaps it was mean of him to watch Mr. Dursley fray at the seams, but the man did deserve it, Giotto was still very angry at him. _Any_ of Giotto's Guardians would have expected him to have retaliated by this point. And all in all, this was still fairly harmless. And entertaining, in all his life Giotto hadn't left Little Whinging once since he was placed there, aside from school trips. If the Dursleys went away somewhere, there were a vast selection of neighbours who would be glad to house him for a day or a week.

The letters at the hotel are the last straw, apparently, for Dursley to take drastic actions, in this case he takes them to a decrepit little hut in the middle of the ocean in a _rowboat_ , all while a storm begins to rage. In typical Dursley fashion, Giotto is not given a bed and only the thinnest blanket while Dudley gets four (and Dudley had decided to blame him for the whole thing and thus is not inclined to share).

Giotto doesn't care. This is the closest thing to adventure he's gotten since he remembered who he was. It reminds him of fishing trips he and his guardians used to take for fun, though they usually ended in disaster and shipwreck there was always laughter and happiness. For a birthday, it isn't half bad. Of course, he isn't eleven _yet_. Just a minute to go...

_Someone is outside the hut_.

Giotto is on his feet at a moment’s notice, long-resting instincts surging to the forefront of his mind, adrenaline flooding his body. They are in the middle of nowhere, aside from the toothless old man who owns the rowboat, nobody knows where they are.

The letter issue seems suddenly more sinister than amusing. They've tracked him _everywhere_. G would have had his head for this oversight.

Can he fight magic users? He cannot do much with his own magic. His Flames are sealed off. His body is small and barely trained, nothing like what it used to be. Perhaps if he has the element of surprise…

"Dudley, wake up!" Giotto hisses, but his cousin only groans and mumbles something about pork.

BOOM.

Someone knocks on the door. The whole hut shakes. Giotto doesn't sense any malice, but that means nothing. Things like intentions are easy enough to hide, and this guy might just be an assassin carrying out orders without any emotional investment.

Of course, assassins rarely knock on the front doors.

Dudley has jerked awake, mumbling about cannons, and the adult Dursleys have hurried into the room, Mr. Dursley holding a rifle in an awkward and unpractised grip that makes a part of Giotto _cringe_.

SMASH. The door is knocked off its hinges, and in the doorway stands a giant of a man.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Rome, 1804**

It's a lovely evening. The heat of the afternoon has abated, the temperature is pleasant, and a light breeze brings with it the scent of bread being baked down the street. Giotto closes his eyes, and for a moment his worries are forgotten.

The sound of sharp hooves on pavement breaks through the tranquility. He opens his eyes curiously, the street his family's villa sits upon does not usually see much traffic.

His eyes find horse and rider. The horse is a fine one, an Arabian mare of a lovely ebony colour. Her eyes betray the steed's fiery temper though, and Giotto isn't quite sure the rider is aware of this. From how she holds herself, she is an inexperienced rider. Giotto surmises that she is quite young also, though her face is hidden by a large hat and the distance makes telling her age hard. He can tell, though, that her dress is of excellent make and must have cost quite a fortune. A noble lady, then?

It is at this moment that a loud noise sounds from further down. The horse neighs shrilly, rearing up on her hind legs. The rider cries out in fear as she desperately holds on, but the mare is now actively attempting to throw her off. Giotto's eyes widen, he lunges forward, but it is too late, the girl sails through the air. As far as he can tell, she landed on soft grass, she's already moving, staring after her horse with dismay.

The mare would cause quite some chaos, and it's running in his direction, so he makes a decision and stands in her way. The horse won't run him over, he knows it. And he is correct, she halts just before him, rising on her hind legs again, neighing piercingly. "Ho, girl," he murmurs, raising his hands. "Calm down." She takes steps back, eyes wide. He walks toward her slowly, hands finding the reigns. "Shh." The mare calms down gradually. Giotto has always been good with horses.

Once the mare is sufficiently calm, Giotto gently leads her toward the rider, who has now gotten to her feet. "My Lady, are you quite all right?" Giotto calls out to her.

"Quite fine," she answers stiffly, cheeks reddened with embarrassment. Her hat has fallen off, revealing the slightly dishevelled golden locks and angelic face of a girl of around ten years old, his age. She holds out her hand imperiously, and he automatically takes it and lightly kisses her hand. "Lady de Luisan," he murmurs, recognising her.

Then he's suddenly yanked closer, and she's holding a fan dangerously close to his throat. "You did not see me today, commoner," she hisses.

Well, that is just _rude_. His hand snatches up, trapping the fan in his fingers, and with his other hand he grabs hers and twirls her around. Being the daughter of a duke, dancing has been ingrained into her, and her body automatically moves with his prompt. Elena de Luisan gasps and blinks in surprise as she finds herself at a distance from him, her chosen weapon in his hand.

"How unusual to see a lady of your station riding about with no guards and her face obscured," he muses, not commenting on her threat.

She glares at him. "I will not be questioned by a stranger!" she snaps.

"Are you running away?" he asks, mildly astonished. She is not what he expected.

"Don't be ridiculous!" she huffs. "What is it you want for your silence, money?" She looks condescendingly upon his clothing. It is, while of decent quality, obviously not new.

"That will not be necessary," he answers easily. "I merely wish to know if you are aware of what you are doing. Going into the city like that, without guards, you will be robbed or taken for ransom within the hour. Your disguise will not hold up to scrutiny."

Her face flushes. "I know what I am doing, thank you very kindly, sir!"

"And riding in on in a horse like this," he strokes the mare fondly, "will attract much attention."

"What do you _want_?" she demands. He notes her flustered temper with amusement.

"I am not about to let a lady sneak into town without protection," he answers mildly. "If you would follow me, Lady de Luisan." He turns and begins walking in the direction of his home, her horse following along. A moment of silence, then he hears her scramble after him.

"And _where_ are we going?" she snaps. "You have yet to introduce yourself!"

He halts, gives her a respectful bow as etiquette demands. "My apologies, my lady. I am Giotto Bellincioni."

She frowns. "Bellincioni..."

"You live in the Palazzo di Bellincioni," he helps her memory along.

"Ah!" she exclaims. "That man, the one that-" she stops awkwardly.

"The one who was the richest man of the region, the Principe's right hand man, holding a title of the highest nobility," Giotto finishes for her. "The same that squandered his fortune by gambling and fell heavily into debt, to the point that he had to sell the ancestral family palazzo to a French duke in order to survive, his wife having left him to return to her family, he was then forced to work like a commoner. Yes. I am his son. An honour to make your acquaintance, Lady de Luisan."

 

 

* * *

 

**Britain, 1991**

Giotto looks at the giant, his glinting black eyes, and knows instantly that this man means him no harm.

The man squeezes his way into the hut, picking up the broken door and leaning it into the doorframe behind him before facing the assorted members of the Dursley household and asking for a cup of tea, thereby displaying a strange accent.

(Giotto’s grasp of the English language is not bad, but inconsistent. His mother tongue is and has always been Italian. He did learn the language in his previous life and had known many an Englishman, but it works against him here, he's been told that his way of speaking is odd at times. He's gotten better with that, talking to the people of Little Whinging as often as he does will do that. But understanding and placing accents and dialects still presents a challenge for him.)

"I'm afraid Mr. Dursley didn't think to bring tea," Giotto answers apologetically. "Or a way for us to cook. We do have water, though, if you would like?"

"An' there's Harry!" the giant exclaims, face forming into a delighted smile, eyes glinting happily. Giotto immediately smiles back, feeling an instant rush of affection for this stranger who apparently knows him. “Las’ time I saw you, you was only a baby,” the giant says. “Yeh look a lot like yer dad, but yeh’ve got yer mom’s eyes.”

Does he really? The memories of his parents are fuzzy. He remembers more how they made him feel, how his father’s rumbling laugh sounded, how soft his mother was and how she smelled of flowers.

He rather thinks he looks similar to how he did in the past. Only less trained, and of course his hair is black and his eyes are green. He used to need spectacles, but his eyesight had gradually improved, and nowadays he only utilises reading glasses.

Mr. Dursley makes an odd noise before bellowing, “I demand that you leave at once, sir! You are breaking and entering!”

“Ah, shut up, Dursley, yeh great prune,” is the giant's answer, making Giotto's smile widen, before he reaches over an jerks the gun out of Dursley's hands and twisting it up before throwing it aside. Giotto cringes then, smile dimming. Friendly the stranger may be, but his casual display of power offers no reassurance at all. All three Dursleys whimper in fear, and the giant doesn't seem to care or even notice.

Giotto has no care for the adults, but he does feel responsible for his cousin, so he shifts closer and in front of him.

“Anyway - Harry,” the giant says, dismissing the Dursleys from attention, “a very happy birthday to yeh. Got summat fer yeh here - I mighta sat on it at some point, but it’ll taste all right.”

Giotto receives the box the man pulls from his black overcoat (what fur is it made of? He cannot tell) with a gracious nod and smile. "My thanks, sir. Might I open it?"

The giant chuckles. "I'm no sir, me. Jus' call me Hagrid. Fergot ter introduce meself, I did. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts."

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance." Giotto smiles and offers his hand to shake. The man, Hagrid, shakes his whole arm with enthusiasm. In a way, his excitement reminds him of Knuckle.

"'bout that tea, I got leaves here meself," Hagrid pats a pocket on his coat. "So if ye'll just get that water-"

"Right away," Giotto promises, while Hagrid turns to the fireplace, snorting in derision at the remnants of Mr. Dursley's failed attempts at making fire. Soon, warmth washes over Giotto's chilled skin as a fire begins to merrily dance. From his pockets, Hagrid then pulls an odd assortment of things, until he finds what he needs: a tea kettle, mugs, a poker and sausages, and a bottle that most likely contains some sort of spirits by the way Hagrid takes a deep swig from it.

Meanwhile, Giotto finds the bottles of water they have, and hands them over, taking the time to squeeze Dudley's shoulder and whispering him not to worry, he'll keep him safe. Dudley looks up at him with teary, terrified eyes, and Giotto smiles reassuringly. "I won't let anyone hurt you," he promises. Dudley slowly nods.

Soon, the hut is filled with the scent of grilled sausage. Dudley's fidgeting prompts Mr. Dursley to say, "Don't take anything he gives you," to which Hagrid only laughs and says that his lard of a son is large enough.

Giotto frowns at this. It is an insensitive thing to say, tactless and rude. One does not comment on a person's physical appearance unless it is to praise it; it is a concept Elena had once upon a time vehemently instilled into all of Giotto's people that needed the lesson. And Giotto is quite aware that Dudley is conscious about his weight. While he isn't as overly large as he was before Giotto began looking over his food intake, he's still quite overweight. However, he can't really say anything about Hagrid's careless words here, not without embarrassing his cousin further, so he smiles kindly and answers,

"That doesn't mean he should go hungry," and shares his portion of sausage with his cousin who gobbles it down gratefully, his father not daring to protest at Giotto's firm look.

Giotto turns back to Hagrid, who looks upon the proceeding with mild curiosity. "My apologies, but I confess I have never heard of this 'Hogwarts," he admits apologetically.

He's _guessing_ it's the magic school, there is overlap with the letters upon the letters he received. Ah, but he doesn't want the Dursleys to know that he had deciphered so much of the information already.

"Never heard of-" Hagrid rounds on the Dursleys. "You! I knew Harry wasn't gettin' his letters, but I never thought yeh wouldn't even know about Hogwarts, fer cryin' out loud! Harry, did yeh never wonder where yer parents learned it all?"

"I am not quite certain what you mean by that," Giotto answers honestly. 'All' could mean anything, not just magic.

"NOT CERTAIN!" Hagrid explodes. “Now wait jus’ one second!”

He had leapt to his feet, his anger making him seem larger than life. Mr. and Mrs. Dursley cower away, pressing against the wall as if they wished it would swallow them. Dudley whimpers.

“Do you mean ter tell me,” Hagrid growled at the Dursleys, “that this boy - this boy! - knows nothin’ abou’ - about ANYTHING?”

That was actually mildly insulting.

"Stop! I forbid you to tell the boy anything!" Mr. Dursley shouted, suddenly finding his courage again.

“You never told him? Never told him what was in the letter Dumbledore left fer him? I was there! I saw Dumbledore leave it, Dursley! An’ you’ve kept it from him all these years?” Hagrid thundered.

"Don't you dare continue this farce!" Mr. Dursley yelled.

Giotto clears his throat, drawing the attention to himself and hopefully stopping Hagrid from pulverising Dursley. "I think," he speaks up mildly. "That I should like to know what has been kept from me."

"You, be quiet!" Dursley shouts.

Giotto is patient, and he's hard to rattle. It takes quite a bit to have him raise to a bait. But that by no means implies that he is a pushover. He knows that there are times one _must_ speak up in defence of oneself, in order to not lose respect or standing.

"I will _not,_ " Giotto answers coldly. "Be silent. You do not speak for me." He turns back to Hagrid and softens his tone. "Please," he says demurely. "Tell me what you were talking about."

Hagrid looks uncomfortable now. "Err, yea. Right," he stutters. "Harry, yer a-"

"STOP!" Mrs. Dursley shrieks then. "I won't allow it! I will not have another _freak_ in my house! Bad enough that my sister-"

"SILENCE!" Hagrid bellows, and Mrs. Dursley ends her beginning rant with a tiny squeak. "I'm goin' ter tell Harry of his world, an' yeh ain't goin' ter stop me!"

"World?" Giotto asks quietly.

"Our world. Your world. Your parents' world," Hagrid says helplessly.

"I do not understand," Giotto says. He knows little of magic, but a separate world? It sounds too far-fetched.

“But yeh must know about yer mom and dad,” Hagrid says. “I mean, they’re famous. _You’re_ famous.”

"Famous? What for?" Giotto asks, bewildered. As far as he knows, they had been a normal family back then, though he _was_ an infant and could have missed something.

Hagrid runs his fingers through his hair nervously, seeming less than able to cope with this situation. He then takes a deep breath, apparently deciding to just come out with it. "Harry - yer a wizard."

"Oh," Giotto says. He knew that already.

Is he famous because he is a wizard? Are they so rare? But then, why did Hagrid speak of a _world_?

"An' a thumpin’ good’un, I’d say, once yeh’ve been trained up a bit," Hagrid adds when the ensuing silence becomes uncomfortable. "With a mum an’ dad like yers, what else would yeh be? An’ I reckon it’s abou’ time yeh read yer letter.”

Mechanically, Giotto takes the letter offered to him, noting the adress:

 

_Mr. H. Potter_  
The Floor  
Hut-On-The-Rock  
The Sea

He'll be amused about that address later, he supposes.

 

HOGWARTS SCHOOL  
_of_ WITCHCRAFT _and_ WIZARDRY

 

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE  
_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,  
Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

Dear Mr. Potter,

 

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment.

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31.

 

Yours sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall,  
_Deputy Headmistress_

 

 

The letter doesn't answer his questions, but Hagrid is looking at him like he's expecting something, so Giotto asks, "It says they await my owl. What does that mean?"

"Gallopin’ Gorgons, that reminds me,” Hagrid exclaims, clapping a hand to his forehead with quite a bit of force, and from yet another pocket of his overcoat he pulls a live owl, a long quill, and a roll of parchment, all of which he utilises to write a quick, informal note.

 

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

_Given Harry his letter._

_Taking him to buy his things tomorrow._

_Weather’s horrible. Hope you’re well._

_Hagrid_

 

Giotto frowns. Hagrid seems kind enough, but it seems as if Giotto will not be given a choice in all this. It's not that he wouldn't have chosen to go to this Hogwarts place, but he would have liked to be given the option to refuse.

He has a feeling he will need to be careful in the future to not have decisions made for him.

The note is rolled up and given to the owl, who takes it into its beak and flies off. Right into the raging storm, Giotto notes with some concern.

"Where was I?" Hagrid asks.

"In this hut?" Giotto asks with some confusion, garnering an odd look from Hagrid. Ah, he must have missed a modern saying again.

"He's not going!" Mr. Dursley says forcefully.

Giotto raises his hand before Hagrid can blow up at him again. Dudley has only just calmed down somewhat, and Giotto refuses to have him frightened again.

"Mr. Dursley," he says, calmly and firmly, fixing the obese man with the same look he used to use on nobles who thought they could cow him by right of their titles alone. He is unyielding in the face of oppression, always has been. "Kindly leave this room, and cease your interference in my life. Take your wife with you."

He cannot physically manifest his Flame, but he can feel it in his body, and he can amplify his aura to the point it takes his counterpart's breath away. He does this now. Vernon Dursley looks upon him as if he is a great and terrible being. It is a look Giotto hasn't been graced with in a very long time. He does not enjoy it in the least, but he tires of having this man attempting to control his decisions. It has gone on long enough.

Giotto reigns in his aura, and without another word Dursley stumbles from the room, pulling Mrs. Dursley with him.

"Harry?" Dudley asks, more in confusion than fear. Giotto had taken care to aim his ire at the adult Dursleys only, sparing Hagrid and Dudley the unpleasant experience.

Hagrid looks slightly concerned, but seems to shrug and leave it bygone.

Giotto smiles at his cousin. "It is fine, Dudley. But I do think you should follow them, they are without doubt worried for you."

Dudley frowns. "Are you going away? I don't want you to!"

"I will be back," Giotto promises, looking to Hagrid for confirmation. "Tomorrow will be for shopping only. Term will only start on the first of September."

"But then you'll be _gone_!" Dudley protests, eyes shining with betrayal. "That Hoggy place isn't a day school, is it?"

Giotto looks to Hagrid, who confirms reluctantly that it's a boarding school in Scotland.

"You can't go!" Dudley shouts, a hint of panic in his eyes.

"Dudley." Giotto crouches before his cousin, laying his hands upon his shoulders. He smiles at his cousin gently. "You are stronger than you think. You don't need me as a crutch anymore."

Dudley sniffs. "No!"

"You are family," Giotto continues quietly. "If you have need of me, I will only be a call away. I promise. But I must go, to find out the truth."

"You promise you'll be back?" Dudley demands petulantly.

"I swear it," Giotto answers. _On my Flame and my Resolve._

Dudley nods, sniffing. Giotto retracts his hands from his cousin's shoulders, and the other boy shuffles from the room.

Hagrid has watched the scene with curious eyes. "Yer close to the boy?" he asks.

Giotto nods. "His parents are quite hopeless in their narrowmindedness," he admits. "I'm worried about leaving Dudley with them, but I suppose it cannot be helped."

He would talk to the neighbours, make sure they would watch out for the boy.

Hagrid smiles at him. "Ye've got yer mum's heart, Harry."

No, he has his own heart. But Giotto appreciates the sentiment nonetheless. Mama was a wonderful person, and he regrets he never got to know her better. "You knew my parents?"

The man chuckles. "Yer mum an’ dad were as good a witch an’ wizard as I ever knew. Head boy an’ girl at Hogwarts in their day! Yer mum was the smartest girl in her year, had teachers singin' her praises. Yer dad always had his nose somewhere it weren't supposed ter be. Dead smart, he was, but a prankster to the bone. Lost count of how often I found him an' his friends in the Forbidden Forest..." He sighs wistfully, shaking his head. "Terrible what happened to them, terrible."

"What _did_ happen to them?" Giotto asks seriously. "I'm fairly certain the Dursleys did not tell me the truth about their deaths."

Hagrid sighs deeply, and then begins to tell the dark tale of a wizard so fearsome no one dares speak his name to this day. (Giotto has to smother a laugh once Hagrid reluctantly parts with this fearsome name at his request. _Voldemort?_ Oh, _truly_ fearsome, no doubt. Flight from death. If he didn't remember first-hand how monstrous the murderer had been, he would have had trouble taking the danger seriously.)

"And this man, he is gone now?" he asks, but knows better. He's felt the spirit flee its burning body, escaping into the night, a part of it worming into Giotto himself. No, this Voldemort is still in existence.

"Disappeared. Vanished. Same night he tried ter kill you. Makes yeh even more famous. That’s the biggest myst’ry, see … he was gettin’ more an’ more powerful - why’d he go?" Hagrid answers. “Some say he died. Codswallop, in my opinion. Dunno if he had enough human left in him to die. Some say he’s still out there, bidin’ his time, like, but I don’ believe it. People who was on his side came back ter ours. Some of ’em came outta kinda trances. Don’ reckon they could’ve done if he was comin’ back. Most of us reckon he’s still out there somewhere but lost his powers. Too weak to carry on. ’Cause somethin’ about you finished him, Harry. There was somethin’ goin’ on that night he hadn’t counted on - I dunno what it was, no one does - but somethin’ about you stumped him, all right.”

His mother's Flames, Giotto remembers. How she had died, but her Will had lived on, protecting him that night. His own Flames had helped her feat along, but the main work was all her.

A mother's love truly is a wondrous thing.

 

* * *

 

The next morning brings with it a sense of anticipation. The reality of his situation has sunk in overnight, and having woken early Giotto has had time to think it all over.

Mayhap danger lurks in his future, he does not worry about it. He's weathered all challenges that have been thrown at him in his past, and he will continue to do so in the present and future. To walk forward bravely, to not cower in the face of opposition, that is what he _does_.

Giotto cannot wait to explore this new world. Little Whinging had been a cage. Outside lurks the wide and wonderful life, filled with adventure. Perhaps it would be lonely without his beloved family, but they would have wanted him to move on. To live this life to the fullest.

After a quick breakfast consisting of the birthday cake that had been in the box Hagrid had given him last night (he leaves some for Dudley to eat), they are off to somewhere named Diagon Alley.

"By what method did you arrive here?" Giotto asks his companion curiously as they make to travel back to the coast by boat. Hagrid had assured him that he would sent the boat back, so the Dursleys wouldn't be stuck in the hut on the rock.

"Flew," Hagrid grunts, not a morning person unlike Giotto.

" _Flew?"_ Giotto's eyes widen, and the wave of longing that hits him is entirely familiar. Ah, he misses being able to fly, carried by his Flames. Freedom at his grasp, the world far below to be looked upon full of appreciation, the wind in his hair, cold biting his skin and making him feel alive in a way nothing else has ever been able to match. To think he can have that once more, it is a wonderful thought.

"Yeah," Hagrid confirms. "We'll go back by boat though, now that I've got yeh, I'm not s'possed ter use magic anymore." He goes shifty-eyed. "Seems a shame to row, though." He shoots Giotto a look. "If I was ter - er - speed things up a bit, would yeh mind not mentionin’ it at Hogwarts?”

"Of course not. But why aren't you supposed to use magic?" Giotto tilts his head curiously, intuition pinging.

“I’m - er - not supposed ter do magic, strictly speakin’. I was allowed ter do a bit ter follow yeh an’ get yer letters to yeh an’ stuff - one o’ the reasons I was so keen ter take on the job -” was at Hogwarts meself but I - er - got expelled, ter tell yeh the truth. In me third year. They snapped me wand in half an’ everything. But Dumbledore let me stay on as gamekeeper. Great man, Dumbledore.”

It seems that is all Hagrid is willing to stay, so Giotto stays silent, mulling this over. Inwardly, he's frowning.

This time is not the same as the one he was born in, it's not _his_ and sometimes he feels very disconnected from it all. Back then, it would have been considered an insult to be escorted by someone as lowly as a gamekeeper who had not finished his education. Of course, Giotto couldn't possibly care less about that, he'll accept anyone as his friend so long as they have kindness in their hearts. But Elena, lovely noble Elena, may God rest her soul, had instilled into him the importance of the messages people send by how they choose to deal with him, even when they are allies.

He thinks upon the fact that he must appear an eleven year-old boy, living with relatives who so obviously have no love for him, barely even a shred of concern for his well-being. He considers the fact that Hagrid had mentioned being the one to take him from that house and placing him with the Dursleys, and now is back at the orders of a man named Dumbledore, perhaps with pure intentions, but entirely unequipped to deal with the surprise of finding him almost entirely in the dark about the wizarding side of life.

It does not bother Giotto in the least. He has always preferred to find his own information, to not rely upon others' often biased words. Among his fondest memories are the times when he and Elena would meet up in secret, her sneaking away from her father's castle and finding her way to him, he procuring disguises and whatever else they might need, and then they would sneak about town and see with their own eyes the way people lived, the way they were treated and treated others, slowly realising the way the rich and noble were slowly bleeding society dry, how crime was running rampant. Sometimes G would come along, but generally those adventures were something Elena and he considered _theirs_.

He _misses_ her still, so much. Even after all this time, the pain and guilt have never abated. He doubts they ever will, and he doesn't want them to. Doesn't want to forget her.

The rest of the journey passes in silence, Hagrid reading his newspaper and occasionally commenting on the incompetence of the body of government, the so-called Ministry of Magic. Giotto makes a mental note to look into that. Corrupt governments are not a thing he will tolerate.

There is also further mention of Dumbledore. He's been mentioned far too often, seeing as he had, and quite possibly still has, anmeasure of influence over Giotto's life, he will have to look into this man.

There are a few hiccups when it comes to riding the train, Giotto is nowhere near as versed in technology as he should be, but they figure it out. At least he knows how the currency works.

 

* * *

 

 

Giotto has visited London exactly once. A week-long stay to negotiate with an ally, in 1825.

It has changed quite a bit. He is not sure he likes the changes. Carriages and horses have been replaced by loud cars and motorcycles, there is noise everywhere. He is still not used to the current fashions, seeing women in britches so openly (Elena had been one thing, seeing everyone do this is a different thing altogether), it discomforts him more than he would like. Then there's the tube, _that_ really unnerves him.

This time period is so _fast_ , so _loud_. So crowded and yet impersonal.

He's relieved when Hagrid leads him to a small pub that the surrounding passers-by do not seem to register. The interior feels familiar, Elena and he had visited countless such establishments, and later with his Guardians he had stayed in even more.

The fashions, too, dark cloaks and long robes, make him feel more at ease. Especially as they seem to know and like Hagrid, waving to him and calling out friendly greetings. The bartender asks if Hagrid would like 'his usual', which Hagrid declines.

“Can’t, Tom, I’m on Hogwarts business,” says Hagrid, clapping his great hand on Giotto's shoulder and almost making his knees buckle.

“Good Lord,” the bartender says, staring at Giotto with incredulous realisation, “is this - can this be - ?”

The Leaky Cauldron goes silent in a way Giotto hasn't experienced in a long while, but is familiar to him all the same. After all, fame and notoriety had followed and preceded him like an odour since he was eighteen, and hadn't stopped until he left for Japan.

So he puts on a smile for all those who come forward to meet him, many having tears in their eyes. He greets them kindly, asks for their names, thanks them for the warm welcome. It is a part of his life that he had always enjoyed, witnessing first-hand that he had helped better people's lives, it used to make him and his cause feel validated.

Yet now it feels like a lie, for it was not he who had liberated them from the bane that was their Dark Lord but his mother. But he cannot tell them this, can only give them what they feel they need.

His intuition alerts him as a new man comes forward, nervous-looking and pale, eyes twitching. He makes Giotto feel uneasy, he senses great malice from him, but no one else seems to notice.

“Professor Quirrell!” Hagrid exclaims. “Harry, Professor Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts.”

“P-P-Potter,” the professor stutters, grasping Giotto's hand. He keeps smiling despite his wariness. “C-can’t t-tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you.”

"The pleasure is on my side, Professor," Giotto answers. "Might I enquire as to what subjects you teach, sir?"

“D-Defence Against the D-D-Dark Arts,” the professor mumbles reluctantly, a frightened widening of his eyes accompanying the statement. “N-not that you n-need it, eh, P-P-Potter?” He laughs nervously, fake to Giotto's ears. “You’ll be g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I’ve g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on vampires, m-myself.”

It is at this point that the crowd feels Giotto's attention had been monopolised enough, and Professor Quirrel vanishes in the throng of people, Giotto spying him as he ducks out the door.

Finally, Hagrid hollers, “Must get on - lots ter buy. Come on, Harry," over the chatter, and leads them into a small courtyard, unimpressive and drab, marred by trash and weed.

“Told yeh, didn’t I? Told yeh you was famous. Even Professor Quirrell was tremblin’ ter meet yeh - mind you, he’s usually tremblin’,” Hagrid says proudly, grinning with excitement.

“He is certainly an interesting fellow,” Giotto answers neutrally.

“Oh, yeah. Poor bloke. Brilliant mind. He was fine while he was studyin’ outta books but then he took a year off ter get some firsthand experience. … They say he met vampires in the Black Forest, and there was a nasty bit o’ trouble with a hag - never been the same since. Scared of the students, scared of his own subject - now, where’s me umbrella?”

Giotto's eyebrows rise. Vampires? Hags? This hidden world got more interesting by the second.

Hagrid, meanwhile, counts bricks in the wall above a trash can. “Three up … two across … Right, stand back, Harry.” He taps the wall three times with the point of his umbrella.

The brick he had touched quivers and begins to tremble, to shake, to _move_ \- a small hole appears, quickly widening - a second later they are stood before an archway large enough even for Hagrid, an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

“Welcome,” Hagrid says, “to Diagon Alley.”

 

* * *

 

Giotto cannot stop marvelling at the sights. Here, _here_ he has found a piece of his past. The hagglers, the crotchety old ladies commenting upon everything from the side, the children shrieking in delight, the market stands, the way vendors yell praises of their wares. The way people are dressed. The way they speak, even if the subjects they speak of are foreign to him.

Yet there's not only nostalgia, but also wonder at the new things he sees. Cauldrons he is familiar with, flying broomsticks he is not. There are shops for the oddest things, and he cannot wait to explore them. But far more interesting are the people, diverse and from all walks of life, as it appeared.

And the non-humans. Hagrid steers them down the crowded alley and they come to a stop before a white building with bronze doors. Guarding them is what Hagrid informs him is a goblin, a strange creature wearing an impressive uniform and holding a battle axe, shorter than Giotto himself, with odd leathery skin, a pointed beard, his eyes gleaming with shrewd intelligence. He bows as they walk past, but Giotto feels no respect in the gesture, though mild surprise is displayed on his face when Giotto stops to bow back.

Hagrid chuckles once they are through the entrance. "Yeh don' need ter do that, Harry."

"Respect given must be returned," he returns evenly. "It is only right."

Behind the bronze doors awaits a pair of silver ones, a poem engraved on them warning thieves off. They walk through these doors - also guarded by mockingly bowing goblins, and again Giotto returns the gesture - and he cannot help his amazed gasp. The hall they enter is vast, with polished marble floors and walls, lustrous chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling. Giotto has seen many a castle's interiors, and this bank puts a great deal of them to shame. There are more goblins, sitting behind a long counter, many of them examining precious stones and gold coins. Others leading people in and out of doors leading deeper into the building.

Without hesitation, Hagrid leads them to the counter.

“Morning,” he greets “We’ve come ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter’s safe.”

The goblin looks not pleased in the least. “You have his key, sir?”

“Got it here somewhere,” says Hagrid, and he starts emptying his pockets onto the counter, revealing an odd assortment of random objects, much to the goblin's consternation. Giotto feels embarrassed, Hagrid is being very disrespectful.

“Got it,” Hagrid says at last, holding up a tiny golden key.

Why is this key in Hagrid's possession? Is it not Giotto’s? Or should it not have at least been given to those legally responsible for him? He makes a mental note to follow up on this.

The goblin inspects the key closely. “That seems to be in order.”

“An’ I’ve also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore,” says Hagrid importantly, chest swelling with pride. “It’s about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen.”

The letter is carefully read. “Very well,” the goblin says, handing it back to Hagrid, “I will have someone take you down to both vaults. Griphook!”

Another goblin appears. Hagrid swipes all his scattered belongings back into his apparently very spacious pockets, while Giotto politely thanks the teller for his time, garnering another odd look. Is common respect so unusual to them, or is Giotto disregarding a rule of etiquette? Regardless, they don't seem offended.

Griphook leads them out the hall, into a narrow stone hallway far less impressive than the hall they exit. It is lit by torches, and there are railway tracks let into the ground. At Griphook’s whistle a cart drives up to them, braking with a loud screech before their group. Griphook waves them in.

A laugh escapes Giotto as the cart is set in motion at dizzying speed. Ah, it is almost like flying, he thinks as they hurtle through a veritable labyrinth of railways without ever slowing. Giotto's eyes grow wide at the wonders they pass - an underground lake, stalagmites and stalagtites as large as houses, glowing crystals scattering torchlight in light dots across walls.

Hagrid doesn't appreciate the ride as much as he does, judging by the colour his face has turned, but Giotto is tactful enough not to intrude upon his space when the cart finally comes to a stop and the large man stumbles out, heavily bracing himself upon a stone wall beside an iron door.

Griphook unlocks this door, and Giotto's eyes grow wide at the sight of the vault's contents. Gleaming coins, stacked in pyramides. Bronze, silver, gold. He has never seen this much in one place before, but it was never his, never presented so casually.

"All yours," Hagrid gasps out with a forced smile, face still tinged green, and then proceeds to explain the value of the currency, afterwards handing him a bag and advising him on how much to take.

Giotto finds the idea of such wealth unsettling. It only led to hubris within the majority of people he had known. He trusts himself not to fall into that trap, however, but it makes him uncomfortable nonetheless.

Once they are done, they visit another vault, this one far deeper into the cave system, and apparently far deadlier secured. “Very secret. Hogwarts business. Dumbledore’s trusted me," Hagrid brags, appearing very proud of this fact.

It's oddly reminiscent of how G would gloat to Asari when given a task, and Giotto has to grin.

Hagrid retrieves a small package from the vault, acting very mysterious about it. It's vaguely disappointing how small the package is, but then Giotto reminds himself that powerful weapons are often very small.

He misses the weight of the Vongola Sky Ring upon his finger.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Rome,** **1805**

Darkness has fallen. Giotto lies upon his bed, idly reading a book and listening to G humming while he cleans the room.

G's family had been in the service of the Bellincioni family for generations. When Giotto’s father squandered away the family fortune all the servants had left them for more rewarding masters, with the exception of G's father who had taken his wife and son and moved them to the townhouse Giotto and his father now lived in. Not once had they complained about the grossly underpaid work.

Well, G's father and mother hadn't. G himself had been _difficult_ in the beginning, ranting and raving at Giotto whom he had been told to serve. Giotto, disheartened after his mother left his father to return to her family, off-balance after the move from the luxurious palazzo to the townhouse, had simply taken it, all the insults and snide remarks, which made the other boy even angrier.

The change came when G had broken a heirloom in a fit of temper, a deed he'd immediately regretted. Giotto's father discovered the broken item, immediately falling into a rage fuelled by the spirits he'd taken to drinking. If G had been discovered to be the culprit, there would have been no telling what his punishment might be. So Giotto took the blame and braved his father's anger.

G had been his best friend and sworn brother ever since. The one person Giotto was certain would never, ever leave him.

Now, five years after, he has another friend.

"Ah, she's here," he says, as his ears tell him of her approach. He places his book down and strides to the window, looking on in amusement as the girl climbs up the tree and balances on a branch, cursing as another gets caught in her hair. "Good evening, Lady Elena," he greets politely, holding out his hand to help her climb into his room. Gently, he frees her hair of the offending branch before she can yank it out and strands of hair with it, which would no doubt lead to much complaining. Elena is particular about her looks.

"Giotto," she greets, curtseying. "G." She shakes out the fine skirts of her dress. How she could climb a tree in them, Giotto will never know.

"Lady Elena," G returns the greeting.

"Are you quite all right?" Giotto asks. "You seem aggravated."

"My eldest brother's fiancée has arrived," Elena answers. "I have met harlots with better manners!" She snarls in anger. "You should have seen how she treated the servants - I have _no words_ that could possibly express my anger! She complained about everything, she attempted to hit a maid, she called my dog a _vile beast_ , my dresses are apparently out of fashion - I cannot believe her!"

"Seems to me like she's the exact kind of woman your buffoon of a brother deserves," G snorts. Elena barks out a harsh laugh.

"Oh, that is quite true." She rakes a hand through her hair, fingers pulling out hair needles and pins. "But I will have to share my home with her until I myself am married off. Possibly even after that, Father loves me too much to ever let me live in a house other than his own."

"You are welcome here anytime," Giotto promises. "Whenever you need peace."

She gives him a quick smile. "Thank you, Giotto." Her golden locks now tumble freely down her back. Giotto steps up to her unasked, fingers pulling the mass of hair into a neat braid. G brings worn pants and shirt over, and a cap to hide her hair, which she accepts with a quick word of thanks.

G turns away when Giotto's fingers begin to undo the knots of Elena's corset. None of them even blush anymore, they've been sneaking into town together for a year, and the disguises are a part of that.

Elena slides out of her skirts and pulls on pants and shirt, her hair is hidden under the cap. Giotto helps her into an old jacket of his before he pulls on a hooded cloak.

"Where are we going tonight?" G asks, his own red hair hidden under a hat.

"Elena?" Giotto asks, because her motions are still angry, full of hurt at how little control she has over her own life.

Her eyes spark with reckless hunger for excitement. "Somewhere scandalous. Somewhere Father would never allow me. Somewhere _dangerous_."

G smirks. "I know a place. It's not for the faint of heart though, Lady."

"There are no faint of heart in this room," Giotto says. "What is this place?"

"A bar," G answers. "I hear they fight for money in the basement. Some lords go there even, to gamble on fighters."

" _Perfect_ ," Elena hisses. "Let's go."

Giotto fights down a sliver of unease. Their nightly excursions are becoming increasingly more risky. And none of them like the injustices they witness every time they go out, the crime running rampant, the city guards looking the other way. Someday, something would happen.

Perhaps he should have listened to his intuition because at the end of the night Giotto stands over a charred corpse while G bleeds from a deep gash in his arm, and Elena... Elena is weeping over the body of a little boy who was abused and murdered by the same man Giotto burned. Witchcraft, it must be.

Elena looks up, eyes alight with a strange fire, face hard despite the tear tracks evidencing her grief. "Enough," she says. "Enough of this injustice."

Giotto feels the weight of her declaration. It echoes his own conviction, his own resolve. He sees it on G's face, too.

And he nods.

"Enough."

 

* * *

 

**Diagon Alley, 1991**

As fun as riding the carts of Gringotts is, Giotto is glad to be back in the sun.

"Might as well get yer uniform,” Hagrid suggests, nodding towards a shop called _Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions_. “Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts.”

"Of course not," Giotto answers, still concerned over Hagrid's facial colour. "Please take all the time you need."

"Thank yeh, Harry. Yer a good boy." Hagrid shuffles off and Giotto enters the shop by himself.

The witch whom he assumes is Madam Malkin greets him kindly. “Hogwarts, dear?” she says cheerfully before he can even open his mouth. “Got the lot here, come right along!"

"Yes, Ma'am," he says politely, earning a charmed smile as she leads him to the back of the shop. 

"If you would just step on the stool here, there you go, I'm just going to slip this robe over your head now-" Madam Malkin chatters away as she bustles about, happy to do her job. It feels like no time has passed at all until she announces, "That's you done, dear!"

Giotto smiles at her. "That was quick."

"Oh, I've been doing this job for years," she waves him off. "I could do Hogwarts robes in my sleep. Will there be anything else?"

He makes a quick decision. "Yes, if it's not too much trouble. I would like a cloak."

"Of course, dear, please, tell me what you have in mind..."

It takes her no time at all to gather what he needs. Ten minutes later and Giotto feels like he has regained a part of himself as he watches his form in the mirror, swathed in black fabric, the numeral ‘I’ emblazoned on the metal band. His mouth is dry. It's not his Mantello, but it is as close as it gets. "This is wonderful. Thank you, Madam Malkin."

"Oh, nothing to thank me for!" she laughs. "But it is odd. The style is rather old-fashioned, but it looks incredibly natural on you. Would you like me to add an age-adjustment charm for it? That way, it'll grow as you do, though you will have to add fabric to it at times. The enchantments can't conjure the material, you see."

"That would be marvellous, Ma'am."

"Oh, no worries," she chuckles, "Will this be all, then?"

"That depends." He smiles. "I confess, I am not too knowledgeable about current fashions, Ma'am. Is there everyday wear besides robes? Breeches and such?"

"Oh, yes, of course." Her eyes gleam. "I don't often get asked about them, but we do have several things in stock-"

Giotto looks up as a man sweeps into the shop. He has long, white-blond hair and cold grey eyes, in his hand he carries a cane with a snake head, Giotto is certain that it contains a weapon. Nobility clings to the man like a stench, the way he looks down upon his surroundings, a sneer on his aristocratic face, it is all too familiar in the worst of ways. He looks about the shop. "Malkin, where is my son?" he demands to know.

Flustered, the woman flushes. "Oh, he, well. I am terribly sorry, but the dear boy would not let me close, and he left as soon as I had taken his measurements, I have his robes here though-"

"And you just let him leave?" the man demands. "What kind of shop are you running here?"

The woman falters. This is cruel, she has done nothing wrong, has been nothing but kind to Giotto. "A shop for clothing, obviously. Not a prison," Giotto says dryly. "Perhaps if you are so concerned about your son's whereabouts, you should not have left him in the first place. Though, I find it rather _concerning_ that he refused to let a stranger touch him and left before you could return for him."

The man pales with anger. "And just _what_ are you insinuating, boy?" he says silkily, dangerously.

"Why," Giotto smiles calmly, his voice just as smooth. "I am merely musing upon the oddities of the circumstances."

"Do you not know who I am?" the man asks coldly.

Ah, that spiel. It is almost nostalgic. "You are a man who believes the world owes him worship. You are a man who buys his power. You are a man who has never sullied his hands with honest work," Giotto says coldly. "A man who looks down upon others, who treats a woman you have no personal connection to so rudely and callously, when it was your family member who caused her inconvenience with his whims, which she accommodated with admirable patience. I do not need to know your name. I have known a thousand like you, and I have bowed to none."

"How dare you," the man begins.

"How dare _you_ ," Giotto continues. "You enter this shop, paying neither respect to the owner, nor treating her with the respect a man should offer any woman, be she of noble birth or not. You, sir, are no gentleman."

The man looks livid. "You little-"

"That is enough!" Madam Malkin seems to have found her courage. "Lord Malfoy, you are no longer welcome in my establishment. I am honestly appalled that a man of your status has to be taught manners by a boy of eleven years!"

The man scoffs, looking seconds away from pulling his weapons. "Twilfitt and Tattings offer better service than this low-class hovel anyway," and with this parting shot he strides out of the shop.

"How odd then that my shop was still his first choice to send his son to," Madam Malkin snorts.

"Madam, I apologise," Giotto says. "I have cost you a customer. I will of course reimburse you for the work you did for Lord Malfoy's son."

"Oh, _dearie_ ," she coos, patting his cheek with a gentle hand. "You did me a great service today, I have never had the courage to tell the vile man to get out of my shop, no matter how often I resolved to do so. He makes my employees miserable, and he treats us no better than the dirt under his shoes."

"How appalling," Giotto says. "A man must never treat a lady with anything less than the utmost respect. It is the lowest of manners and speaks of the poorest upbringing."

She bursts out laughing, an explosion of joy. It is lovely to see, and it makes her face ten years younger. "Ah, my little chivalrous hero, I am so very glad I met you today." Her eyes twinkle with laughter. "Now, let's talk about your wardrobe. And because I am in a good mood, you can have that cloak of yours for free."

 

* * *

 

 

Giotto spends another enjoyable half hour with Madam Malkin before Hagrid arrives. "S'rry," he says. "Got ter talkin' with an old friend."

"It is no trouble, I took longer than expected as well," Giotto answers easily, indicating the cloak he is wearing as an explanation. Hagrid hands him an ice cream and gives him a compliment for the garment, and Giotto thanks him profusely.

Ice cream. What a wonderful invention! The world of the future is truly full of marvels.

After this, they visit the shops of Diagon Alley. A shop for writing utensils is first, and Giotto finds himself quite bemused at seeing that feather quills are the common instrument for writing in this world. They had already gone out of fashion in his old time, having been replaced by dip pens with steel nibs then. In his current life, the non-magicals - muggles, as Hagrid calls them, though Giotto is not certain he likes this term, there is a condescending connotation to it - have a vast selection of writing utensils.

However, Giotto quickly realises that the quills are far more than just feathers one dips into ink for writing. There are ever-refilling ones, those that would protocol the spoken word, some that change the colour of their ink at a mere request or even an unspoken signal, and all sorts of grips to accommodate the hand optimally. Some that release healing charms to soothe strained hands. There is a sign that advertises 'For your muggleborn needs' where quills are integrated into non-magical writing utensils.

Ink is another marvel. There is ink that would only write the truth as the writer knew it. Ink that would change colour as one wrote, according to mood. A whole collection of secret inks for passing messages, apparently password-locked, instructions for setting the password sold with it.

In the end, Giotto picks a quill with a self-accommodating grip charm, in his hands it turns into a grip like the pens he had used in his previous life. (It doesn't surprise him. His penmanship with modern pens has never been as good as it used to be with those he grew up using in this life.) Another two in case he loses this one, and one with added healing charms. For ink he picks up several vials of normal black ink, but also truth-ink, the password ink, and invisible ink. One never knows if such things wouldn't be needed someday. Also, these small marvels amuse him quite a bit.

After the quill shop they visit _Flourish and Blotts_ , the book store. And what a bookstore it is! Shelves stacked to the ceiling, ladders having to be climbed to inspect them. Books of all sizes and materials, in all languages. Aside from the books on the list that came with the Hogwarts letter, he picks up one on Hogwarts' history, two on wizarding culture, a few on languages that are supposed to speed up language-learning skills. Giotto is fluent in a number of languages, but after over a century his vocabulary must certainly be out of date. Added to that is a book on defence, because the textbook on the list, called _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection,_ seems more an introduction on the bare basics, and less on practical magic than tips for self-defence and getting out of dangerous situations.

"Yer not s'pposed do magic outside of school, Harry," Hagrid objects.

"It's supplementary reading," Giotto answers. "Theory, mostly." The book is definitely _not_ about theory, however it is written in French. Giotto is banking on the assumption that Hagrid doesn't speak the language.

"Well, I guess that's fine, then," the large man eventually shrugs.

After the bookstore comes the apothecary where they buy both cauldron and potions kit. More stores follow, each containing new wonders and marvels. Giotto is certainly going to come back to Diagon Alley to explore some more.

“Just yer wand left - oh yeah, an’ I still haven’t got yeh a birthday present,” Hagrid finally says.

"You have already done so much for me," Giotto demurs. “You really don’t have to go that far.”

"I know I don’t have to. Tell yeh what, I’ll get yer an animal. Not a toad, toads went outta fashion years ago, yeh’d be laughed at - an’ I don’ like cats, they make me sneeze. I’ll get yer an owl. All the kids want owls, they’re dead useful, carry yer mail an’ everythin’.”

Hagrid has a point, Giotto will need a way to keep up correspondence with Dudley, however using letters with Dudley's difficulties in reading is less than ideal. Unfortunately, it seems as if the wizarding world does not utilise phones, so it will have to do for now.

 _Eeylops’ Owl Emporium_ is certainly an experience. The interior of the shop is darkened, the owls' eyes like gleaming jewels, lined up on perches that cover the walls floor to ceiling. Sound seems strangely muffled, and even Hagrid lowers his voice to a whisper. Seeing him around the animals is a revelation, suddenly Hagrid is gentle and careful, owls immediately flocking to him. He strokes their feathers with a gentle hand, muttering sweet words to them, and even sweeter ones to the most vicious looking ones. There are breeds of owls here that Giotto never even imagined.

It takes no time at all to decide upon an animal companion. Barely a minute after he walked in, a large eagle owl with bright orange eyes flutters up, sitting on his shoulder. He is told by the employees, who had been gossiping about the curious sale of a haughty snowy owl to a girl, that his new companion is a Eurasian Eagle Owl, arguably the largest owl breed in Eurasia.

"That one's got a nice temper," the employee tells him. "She's a bit of a mother hen."

Giotto smiles at this, gently running a hand over the owl's chest plumage. He thinks he'll call her Setsuna after his beloved wife. She always had a fondness for birds. He thanks Hagrid profusely for this gift.

"Don' mention it," the man says gruffly. "Don’ expect you’ve had a lotta presents from them Dursleys. Just _Ollivander’s_ left now - best place fer wands, _Ollivander’s_ , and yeh gotta have the best wand.”

A wand... Giotto isn't at all certain what to expect. He had seen vastly differing portrayals of magic in movies his neighbours had watched with him or books he had borrowed. Witches and wizards utilising wands and flying on broomsticks was mostly common in children's stories, of which he had read pitifully few.

For a shop that is supposed to be the best in its craft _Ollivander’s_ seems rather shabby, but Giotto is aware of how deceptive appearances can be. Talbot had been the best craftsman he had ever known, and the shop he had been running before Giotto found and recruited him had looked similarly shabby and even less clean.

The atmosphere in the shop is peculiar, it feels charged with strange energy that prickles at his skin. Even more than in the owl shop sound seems muffled, like it would in a library. It seems... timeless.

"Good afternoon," a man greets in a soft voice.

Giotto, already in the process of turning towards him, returns the greeting politely, not heeding the sound of Hagrid jumping in surprise.

Ollivander is an odd-looking man. Old, but in a way that makes it impossible to guess at his age. His eyes are silver and bright with an awareness that seems otherworldly, as though he sees things others don't.

“Ah yes,” the man murmurs. “Yes, yes. I thought I’d be seeing you soon. Harry Potter. You have your mother’s eyes. It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work.” The man steps closer, eyes intent upon Giotto's, who listens with rapt attention. “Your father, on the other hand, favoured a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favoured it - it’s really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.”

"It does?" Giotto asks in interest. "On what criteria does it choose? Personality? Resolve, strength of will? Power?" _Flame?_ Ah, but Flames might be an unknown concept in this world.

Hagrid chuckles. "Yeh know, I wouldn' be surprised if yeh ended up in Ravenclaw, Harry."

A Ravenclaw, what might that be? It sounds like a specific group of people with certain traits. Perhaps thirst for knowledge, as Giotto had been rather insistently asking questions. Craftsmanship has always been interesting to him, the act of creating something holds much wonder to him.

"Rubeus! Rubeus Hagrid!" Ollivander exclaims. "How nice to see you again. … Oak, sixteen inches, rather bendy, wasn’t it?”

“It was, sir, yes,” answers Hagrid.

“Good wand, that one. But I suppose they snapped it in half when you got expelled?” Ollivander looks unhappy about this. Giotto would be, too, for a master craftsman’s work to be destroyed is quite insulting and hurtful.

“Er - yes, they did, yes,” Hagrid admits contritely, but then adds with pride, “I’ve still got the pieces, though.”

“But you don’t use them?” demands Mr. Ollivander sharply.

“Oh, no, sir,” Hagrid pedals back immediately, his hand clutching at his pink umbrella. A good liar he is not. But Ollivander lets it go, only humming suspiciously, before turning back to Giotto, speaking as he begins to take measurements.

"To answer your question, the process of a wand choosing its wizard is a mysterious one. The traits you mentioned certainly play a role in it, as do many others. I take pride in having a good grasp of what kind of person my wands might choose... but I learn something new with every wand I sell, and I've been known to be absolutely wrong at times. Ah, but what is error but a lesson in humility?" Ollivander leaves the measuring tape to do its work without his hands guiding his movements, disappearing between shelves stacked with narrow boxes. “Every Ollivander wand has a core of a powerful magical substance, Mr. Potter. We use unicorn hairs, phoenix tail feathers, and the heartstrings of dragons. No two Ollivander wands are the same, just as no two unicorns, dragons, or phoenixes are quite the same. And of course, you will never get such good results with another wizard’s wand.”

Giotto tilts his head, thinking this over. Perhaps it is like the way he could use his Guardian's rings, but was never able to do so to their full potential.

Ollivander shuffles back, bringing a box with him. He snatches the measuring tape and carelessly puts it away. "Try this one. Alder wood and unicorn hair, exactly eleven inches. A very harmonious combination. Go on, give it a wave."

Giotto gently takes the wand, handling it with care. An experimental flick yields the tiniest of white sparks, but nothing more.

"No, no, that is not quite the right wand, though it yields some result..." Ollivander murmurs, snatching the wand from Giotto's fingers.

"If I may ask, why did you pick that one as the first for me to try?" Giotto asks curiously.

"Merely my first impression of you. Alder wood has been known to pick friendly and considerate owners, while unicorn hair yields the most faithful of wands and are notoriously difficult to use for harmful magic..."

"You flatter me, sir," Giotto comments, smiling. Ollivander comes back with another wand, looking faintly amused himself.

"Here we are, then. Beech wood and dragon heartstring, nine inches, nice and flexible. And to answer your question, beech wood wand owners are often old souls, wise beyond their years, and capable of impressive artistry. Dragon heartstring produces the most powerful, if temperamental wands, quite prideful... this one was taken from a Swedish Short-Snout, arguably the most even-tempered of dragons."

Giotto feels soothing coolness shoot up his hand as he touches the wand. Blue sparks shoot from it. It hums comfortingly in his hand, but he gets the feeling- "It likes me, but it is not for me," he says quietly.

"How curious," Ollivander murmurs, gently taking the wand from him. "Take this one, then, rowan and phoenix feather. Quite suited for duelling, and phoenix feather wands are the most versatile, though they have the strongest personalities. I have a feeling though-"

Golden sparks float from the wand, a sweet trilling note sounds, but they both fade quickly. "-that this is also not the wand for you. Though it seems to like you, judging by the greeting it gave you," Ollivander finishes. His eyes look alight with pleasure. "Before we continue, please try this one. Acacia wood and dragon heartstring, Peruvian Vipertooth to be exact. Before I answer your no doubt impending questions on its properties, please try it out."

Now curious, Giotto does as told. Again, the wand sparks and hums slightly.

"How very thrilling," Ollivander breathes.

"How so?" Giotto asks curiously.

"It is rare, very rare indeed, to receive customers who seem to be accepted by every wand they try. You see, the average wizard will experience oftentimes quite violent rejections from wands that do not like them, and will do so until they meet the one wand that was meant for them. You, however, are one of the few who is not among their number... as evidenced by the fact that you were not rejected by this very wand I gave you. Acacia wood is notorious for yielding wands that refuse to work for but one owner, laying dead in the hands of others. Peruvian Vipertooths are among the most vicious of dragons. Yet this wand, while not accepting you as its owner, greeted you kindly." Ollivander's stare is unnerving. "The most curious thing, perhaps, is that while this happens perhaps once in seventy years, I have sold a wand to a young witch with the same quality not an hour previously."

"That _is_ odd," Giotto murmurs. Perhaps it is because he is a Sky, whose Flame's characteristic is Harmony? Would he be going to school with another Sky, then? That would be wonderful.

"I wonder..." Ollivander muses. "I do wonder..." And he disappears between the shelves again. "Yes, yes, here we go," he says as he returns, a dusty box held within his fingers lovingly. "Phoenix feather. Black walnut. Go on."

Giotto looks upon the handsome wand, lovingly crafted, and knows this is the one. He takes it from the box, and instantly his body flushes with warmth, his Flame sings in joy. The seal in his scar burns in anger, Giotto does not care. He raises the wand and swishes it, drawing a train of orange-golden Flame after it. He laughs in amazement. "This one," he says. “This is the one."

"Yes, I rather thought so," Ollivander muses, looking pleased with himself. "Black walnut, not very common. Masters of wands made from black walnut are known to have above average instincts and powerful insight. Not the easiest to master, but in the hands of a sincere, self-aware owner, it becomes one of the most loyal and impressive wands of all, with a particular flair in all kinds of charmwork. I believe we can expect great things from you." Ollivanders eyes gleam. "As for the phoenix feather... ah, I believe you will soon find out." He chuckles. "Today has been a most curious day."

"It certainly has been," Giotto answers, smiling down at his wand.

"I confess, I had almost been expecting to give you _that_ wand, holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple," Ollivander sighs. "But perhaps it is for the best. After all, its brother," his eyes fix upon Giotto's forehead. "Yew, thirteen-and-a-half inches, very powerful, was the one to give you that scar. If I had known what that wand would do..."

"You cannot be blamed for a madman's choices," Giotto says gently.

"No, but guilt isn't always rational," Ollivander muses contemplatively. "Ah, that will be seven galleons."

"Thank you for your excellent service," Giotto murmurs, and together, he and Hagrid, who had spent most of the time in the shop daydreaming, leave the old wandmaker alone with his musings.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

It is evening by the time Hagrid and Giotto make their way down the alley, Giotto's heart humming in delight at all that he had seen today, all the people he had met, and perhaps cringing a little bit at how much money had been spent. He'd never been rich before - well, the Vongola Famiglia had had quite a bit of money by the time Giotto chose to retire, but he had never accepted it as a given and been frugal with all that he had. The money belonged to the family as a whole anyway, not him personally.

Hagrid leaves him in Paddington station after Giotto promises to write him. He means it, too, he has quite a few questions. Hagrid tells him that he can always write to the school, too, if there is anything he has need of. "But I can tell yeh everythin' yeh need ter know," Hagrid assures him, and taps his nose proudly. "An' I know who ter ask if yeh don't know somethin’."

"Thank you, Hagrid," Giotto says sincerely. "I enjoyed today very much. And thank you for Setsuna, too." He strokes his owl companion's dark grey plumage gently, and the owl nips his ear affectionately. They are drawing looks, the large man and the boy with the owl on his shoulder.

Hagrid chuckles. "Nothin' ter thank me for, Harry. I'll see you soon!" He hands him a ticket and gives him a few instructions, and then he's gone.

Giotto's train ride to Little Whinging is pleasant, he ends up meeting an old lady who first worries over his being alone - in this time and place, children are well-cared for, it warms Giotto's heart so much that homeless children are so uncommon here. The old lady, Mrs. Jayne, begins teaching him how to knit when he expresses his interest, and the train ride passes quickly.

His return to the Dursley home is less pleasant. Mr. and Mrs. Dursley act as if he doesn't exist. Dudley avoids him as well, apparently still hurting over the fact that Giotto will not be there as much for him as he used to be. It is regrettable, and Giotto does his best to mend the rift - Setsuna is a big help there, she takes to Dudley quickly, and the boy likes her, too. He does like animals, owns two tortoises himself. Another help is the bag of wizarding candy that Giotto picked up, advertised as a selection for muggleborn and raised children to try out wizarding sweets for the first time. There's a multitude of contents in there, and Dudley forgets his worries quickly as they sit on his bed and share the confections. Bertie Bott's all-flavour beans are the first thing they try, and there is no containing the laughter at the faces they make when biting on a particularly _oddly_ flavoured bean. (Giotto could have avoided the more disgusting beans using his Hyper Intuition, but where would have been the fun in that? Besides, it would have been unfair to Dudley.) Giotto refuses to eat chocolate frogs though, food shouldn't _move_. Dudley on the other hand avoids Ice Mice, claiming they taste like sugared tooth paste.

Still, some awkwardness remains between them. Giotto supposes it cannot be helped.

He spends the month before school mostly with his cousin, introducing him to all the neighbours so that he won't be lonely. They all promise to watch out for his cousin, too, which is a relief.

The official story for Giotto's absence is that he was accepted into an exclusive boarding school in Scotland. No one is surprised - Giotto is such a smart boy, they say. It's such a great opportunity.

Evenings and nights Giotto spends studying the books he had bought, often reading out loud for Setsuna while she sits on his shoulder or head. He wouldn't be surprised if by now she couldn't read herself, the owl has proven to be exceptionally intelligent. After diligently studying the books on wizarding culture, he comes to the conclusion that, "These books are full of propaganda." He frowns at them as Setsuna hoots in agreement. "The information is contradictory."

What he _can_ tell is that the power distribution in Magical Britain is vastly unbalanced, representation in the government exists almost exclusively for 'upstanding citizens' only, which Giotto takes to mean that nobility is far too powerful. The Wizengamot, the premier law-making body of the government, is comprised of representatives from old families and Department Heads from the Ministry of Magic, plus a few men and women that had been given the honour of a seat for outstanding services and accomplishments. Reading between the lines, this means that governmental power has been in the hands of a select few families for generations. Of course, the books describe them as 'paragons of wisdom' and other such drivel. But Giotto knows better than to believe that.

It's all very much reminiscent of his old life. He'll however refrain from forming an opinion based on the contents of two books. Verifying his suspicions with his own eyes is the only way to be certain, speaking to other people, seeking advice and information from all layers of society. And then, plotting out the changes that might need to be made.

G's absence is a physical ache in his soul. It is like missing an appendage. He had always been the best strategist of them all. Giotto had the ideas. G made them possible.

Giotto isn't quite sure how to brave the world without him even after eleven years. Yet he can only go onwards. To do otherwise would be an insult to the family he no longer has.

Setsuna hoots as if she can sense his grief. He strokes her feathers gently. "Are you up for delivering a letter?" he asks her quietly. "I must enquire with Gringotts concerning my monetary affairs."

She gives him a look, and he chuckles. "Of course you can. I would never doubt you, my dear friend."

Indeed, he had always had faith in his friends. For better or worse.

He pens a letter to Gringotts, enquiring about his assets, how his vault key came into possession of Hagrid, requesting an overview over his finances. He keeps the letter as straight-forward as he can while still being respectful.

The reply he gets is a not nearly as respectful demand that he come to Gringotts at once. Else he can kiss his answers good-bye.

Well.

Giotto had meant to visit Diagon Alley again anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

Giotto draws some odd looks as he walks into Gringotts for the second time in his life, four days after the demand for his presence was issued. For an eleven year-old boy he cuts an impressive figure, swathed in the fabric of his cloak. The trousers and shirt he wears beneath are of fine make as well, courtesy of Madam Malkin.

But clothes are not what draw the eyes of goblins and wizards alike - it is his presence. He's raised his Sky charisma to a high enough level that nobody seems quite able to look away. This is about all he can manage with his Flames so far.

They had demanded his presence and they had been quite rude about it. So he feels no guilt in giving them a little more than they bargained for. Besides, a business relationship in which one party has no respect for the other cannot ever end well.

Giotto strides into the hall. By a stroke of luck, he recognises a goblin. "Mr. Griphook," he calls out, confidently striding up to the goblin that was just shuffling off to somewhere.

Startled, the goblin turns. "Wizard," he grunts.

"My presence has been requested," Giotto says. In the goblin's eyes - shrewd, cunning, cruel ones, this goblin mustn't be trusted - he sees that Griphook knows exactly what he speaks of. Yet, the answer the goblin spits out is, "Then go to a teller. They're there for a reason," before he stalks away, snarling at a kid that was staring.

"Thank you for your help," Giotto calls after him, and commits to memory the faces of the goblins in the hall, noting which ones seem to approve of Griphook's rudeness, which ones appear not to care, and which ones seem more exasperated and annoyed than anything. There are precious few of the latter kind.

The history book he'd read was quite clear in that there has been much strife between goblins and wizardkind. It had also said that the goblins had been beaten into submission and made to serve their betters. Confined to their bank and the labyrinths below it. Giotto only thought it prudent to find out if grudges were still being held, and how deep they run.

After the previous display, it has become quite clear that yes, grudges are definitely an issue, and one that he should steer clear of.

Giotto shrugs to himself, and lets his intuition lead him to a teller farther back. The queue, like all the others, is quite long. No matter, Giotto has time.

When it is finally his turn, he offers a short bow. "Good day," he greets. "A meeting with me has been requested. My name is Harry Potter."

The teller sneers at him with the same kind of derision displayed by Griphook, and gestures. Another goblin appears. "Take Mr. Potter to the meeting room," the teller grunts.

Giotto's intuition spikes as he looks at his guide. This goblin seems quite young, and even shorter than the other ones. When he begins to walk there is a limp in his steps, and Giotto sees cruel laughter in the faces of the surrounding goblins.

"May I know your name?" Giotto asks once they leave the large hall and prying eyes behind. "I am Harry Potter."

The goblin gives him a suspicious look. "Tarfang," he answers.

"It is nice to meet you, Tarfang," Giotto says sincerely. "What is it that you do for Gringotts?"

"Why do you want to know, wizard?" Tarfang demands.

"Curiosity," Giotto shrugs. "You seem different from the others."

The goblin rounds on him. "Because I limp? Because I am a runt?" he snarls angrily.

"Because their derision slides off of you like water from a leaf," Giotto answers calmly. "You are very strong, Tarfang"

Tarfang stares at him. "I am weak. The blood of humans flows through my veins."

"Strength comes in many forms." Giotto tilts his head. "Does having a human ancestor make you worse in the eyes of the other goblins?"

"It gives my mother shame," Tarfang snarls. "Her love for that human saw our family losing all standing. Mother is forced to work at the forges sorting scrap metals, when before she was a master weapons smith. I am a runner for those _rôzggos_ when I should be a manager. Brother cannot marry the one he loves. Sister returns from schooling with bruises. Grandfather would have been the Potter Account Manager, Potter, but now they make him hunt tunnel worms." Tarfang is breathing hard with rage. "And they make me take you to your new Account Manager as an insult to our line."

"I see," Giotto says quietly. "Thank you for your honesty. Would you tell me your grandfather's name?"

"Ullroar," Tarfang says stiffly. "Of the Râzgut line."

Giotto only nods. They have arrived before a door now. Tarfang knocks for him and snarls something in a language full of growls and throaty noises. They enter upon receiving an answer.

Giotto dislikes the goblin waiting for them on sight. There are four guards behind him, armed to the teeth. A smarmy grin revealing sharp teeth is on his face.

Tarfang makes to leave, but the goblin snarls something, and Tarfang stands in the corner, face livid with rage and shame. Giotto guesses that it only serves to further humiliate Tarfang's family to have him watch this meeting.

"Mr. Potter," the goblin greets gutturally. "Finally saw fit to visit. After years and years of unanswered correspondence."

"Indeed," Giotto answers noncommittally. "With whom do I have the _pleasure_ of speaking?"

"I am the Potter Account Manager, Thranclaw," the goblin answers.

"How odd," Giotto says quietly. "Is it not policy for the family heir to confirm a new Family Account Manager's nomination? You must mean that you are the provisional Account Manager, confirmation and business oaths pending."

The goblin freezes.

Giotto waited four days to attend this meeting. He hasn't stayed idle during those days. He's read books upon books. Has asked the shopkeepers he has met who surely often conduct business with Gringotts for advice. Madam Malkin wasn't greatly knowledgeable, _Ollivander_ on the other hand was a goldmine of information.

"And is it not equally as odd," Giotto continues. "That during years and years of unanswered correspondence, you never saw fit to enquire as to my health, as a proper Account Manager should have?" He tilts his head. "In addition, our first meeting begins with you attempting to shame me for _your_ negligence, attempting to intimidate me with an inappropriate number of four guards, when the mandated number is _one_?

"Furthermore, is it not Gringotts policy to notify the concerned parties when the acting Family Account Manager is seen as unfit to continue his duties, so that they may be released from their oaths with honour?" Giotto smiles peacefully at the now wild-eyed goblin. "I request a meeting with the director to discuss my Family business, in accordance with the Gringotts laws, Article Thirty-eight, Section Four, Paragraph Two, Case E."

"How _dare_ you!" the goblin roars. "You little _brat_ of a wizard!" The guards behind him point their spears at Giotto.

Tarfang jumps in front of him and snarls at them, knives in his own hands. "You _dare_ go against the law! You dare point your spears at the one who holds my family's oaths!" He snarls something in his language that has the other goblins shrinking back. Then he turns to Giotto, the look in his eyes fierce. "Follow, Potter."

It was going to be a long day.

 

 


End file.
